Stomach It
by AsWeAreNow
Summary: In every World Meeting, America gets worse. Soon, nobody really sees him at all anymore, and America is certain he can change things. Will change rating as needed. TW: Mentions of shootings/terrorist attacks
1. Chapter 1

"America."

America stood up, gave everybody an enthusiastic but draining speech on all of his problems, always promising a solution but never coming up with one. A couple countries sighed, groaning. The rest, particularly the Allies, shushed them.

But his speech continued, on and on. _At least he's not eating hamburgers this time,_ England thought. He hated listening to America's speeches.

"America, could you please wrap this up?" England prodded. He'd gone over the eight-minute time limit, and was now at ten minutes.

America finished. England didn't even hear anything that he said.

Everybody was used to his behaviour. Not that anyone liked it, but that didn't really matter. Just America's egotistical behaviour, nothing to be overly annoyed about.

Still, something was different about America today, that the other countries noted but didn't bother to care for. America was weary. He had a sort of drag in his voice, and his words slurred together.

As the other people talked, America scribbled down notes furiously. It was what he was supposed to do; but he never did. Usually, the younger nation would just ask England for a copy, and that was what he had been doing for the last ten years or so. England was still annoyed by it, but simply complied.

Now, though, he filled page after page. He was writing exactly what the others said. He wrote down every single problem of every nation.

Everyone left shortly after. The other speeches were brief; they always were. China and Sweden were always exhausted by America's speeches, always slightly annoyed. China wore the annoyance better, seeing as he didn't actually have any sort of hatred for America. Sweden, however, had no connection to America, was not empathetic towards how young the nation was, and rarely had anything major to report anyway.

America stayed behind for awhile after the meeting, just sitting there. He actually looked really, really upset. England was cleaning up. "America, why are you still here? Usually you leave within a few minutes, it's fifteen after the meeting."

"What? Oh, right." America smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah... I just zoned out, I guess. See yah, Iggy!"

England frowned. He hated when America called him that. But America was already slinging his bag over his shoulders, waving cheerfully.

He finished cleaning up, and then left, pushing America out of his mind.

Shortly after, America was just leaving London. He could feel his throat closing up, hot tears welling in his eyes, but they didn't fall. He paused for a moment, adjusting his glasses, before boarding the flight back home.


	2. Chapter 2

"America." Germany paused, waiting for America to jump in with his somehow-optimistic-but-overly-depressing speech. ( _"But hey! At least it can't get any worse! Right? Right!"_ It could always get worse and optimism was foolish.) He didn't bother to look up until one too many moments of silence passed. "America! You're sleeping during the World Meeting? Honestly!"

America sat up, glancing around wildly before saying, "Wha-What? Sorry," and then launching into his speech.

Germany sighed, murmuring something that eerily sounded like the German _Dummkopf_.

"A new president was elected—," America announced.

"Yeah, we know!" Someone groaned. "All of your People make it known."

"— Lionell Romero won the elections!" America continued, smiling. He'd actually voted for the opposing candidate, but that was just how life was. Things changed. Things weren't the way they ought to be.

"And?"

America continued, and everyone listened halfheartedly. This was really just like every other election.

America didn't tell them that protests were going on all over his country. He should have, but he didn't. It didn't affect the others, and besides, they wouldn't care.

America went into the basics— the opinions of Romero, how old he was, so on and so forth.

"America, shut it. It's been fifteen minutes," England snapped. America frowned, and checked his watch. Indeed, it had been fifteen minutes.

"And I hope that I'll still be able to be friends with all of you!" America added, beaming before sitting down. The air cracked with awkwardness.

America scribbled down all the notes that he could. Once again, he was still at the meeting place when the meeting was over.

"America," England said, briskly walking towards him. America looked up.

"Hey, Iggy," America replied.

"What was that?"

"What was what?" America queried.

"What is so hard about just being on time? You talked about your new boss, America."

"That's important," America argued.

"We don't need to know everything about him. Even if we did, it shouldn't take fifteen minutes."

"S-Sorry."

"Do you have any idea how much time we waste here, just to have you make it even worse?"

America laughed. "We're nations. We have loads of time."

England sighed. America frowned. "England, why are you upset with me?" He asked.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No. Should it be?" America was clearly confused.

"America, you just... You... Nobody cares about any of the things you talked about." America was about to speak, but England quickly snapped, "Let me continue. You always get caught up in everything that's going on, but you don't care about your own. You need to stay out of everyone else's business. You don't need to be the world's police."

America was about to argue that he found that rule perfectly essential, but decided against it. England kept on. "I mean, really. It's pathetic. It's terrible to watch someone like— like _you_ act like this."

"Act like what?"

"America, have you realized a trend in your actions? Because I have." England paused for a moment, as if debating saying it. "Everything you do is a mistake. It always fucks you over. It doesn't even matter what you do. So then, why do you do it? What's the point of continuing to make the same mistake over and over again, insisting you're not wrong?"

"What do you mean?" America asked.

"America, you always seemed so eager to get involved in anything having to do with a lack of capitalism, or democracy, or liberty. You're not even a direct democracy, and you— you—," England sighed impatiently. "Let me put it this way. You always get involved in things that have _no-bloody-thing_ to do with you." He took a deep breath. "And you know what? I wouldn't even mind that. It's none of my damn business. But you know what really pisses me off about you?"

"What?" America asked uncertainly.

"You ignore everything going on in your own country. It's a wonder that any of the nations still bother to talk to you, when they know you'll drop everything to hurt them." England smirked. "At least they've got good enough taste to not be friends with you."

"I do have friends, England!" America protested.

"I wasn't saying you didn't," England shot back. "I'm just saying that you don't have any friends that won't die on you."

"Ha-ha. That's a funny joke, England."

"I don't see anyone laughing. I'm being completely serious."

"Cool," America said. "Well, I don't have the _time_ for this. I have to go now. Bye, England." He grinned like a fool until his jaw hurt.

He stepped outside, taking in lungfuls of air. He went to his hotel, collecting his suitcase and checking out. He was driven to the airport. He checked in and went through TSA (well, what he knew as TSa) all rather mechanically.

Finally, finally, he boarded his flight.

His stomach was twisting and tying itself in knots. Apparently, it thought somersaults were fun. America was shaking; a very strange thing for him to do. The man sitting next to him glanced at him a bit disapprovingly. America was just glad that none of the other nations could see him trembling.

Before he knew it, a flight attendant was asking, "Sir, would you like something to drink?"

America almost jumped. His heart was beating loud in his ears. He waited a moment, just staring. _Fuck, what do I want? Don't people usually order ginger ale when their stomach hurts?_ "Ginger ale," he murmured.

The flight attendant handed him the drink. "Thanks," he mumbled, sipping on it. He tried to focus on something, anything, but he didn't know what to focus on. Soon, he was shaking so badly again that he had to put his drink down.

He tried not to dwell on England's words. Yes, he figured, that was it. It was what England had said, because he cared about England, or at least didn't hate him, and it hurt to hear things like that.

While England's words did hurt, that wasn't the problem. America should've known that something was waiting for him at home.

 **This chapter was rewritten. Have a good day and stay safe. Cheers.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Howl3:** Ah, thanks. In pretty much every series I read/watch, there's always just one or two characters I choose to mainly write about, if that makes sense. But I really like angst-y stuff, so unfortunately for them they suffer. However, I also really like fluff/seeing characters be happy. Stark contrasts, I guess.

 **OurLordAndSaviorKermitTheFrog:** Thanks? Yes. Thanks.

 **MadyLuna:** Thank you! One can only hope, right?

 **AquaEclipse** : Hah, yeah. I know this isn't the most unique story out there. I'm trying to keep this T-rated, though if it is deserving of an M rating, of course I'll change it. T-rated actually allows much less than I thought it would (minor swearing, minor suggestive themes). I used to be comfortable with writing really graphic stuff (really f'ed me up when I was younger) but now I'm not so comfortable.

I'm going to be honest I'm still fairly new to typing on this site and I don't know how to do transitions and indentations and stuff I'm sorry*

America's flight landed in the Denver International Airport roughly 11 hours later. The next meeting would be in his own country, so at least there was that.

As soon as he grabbed his luggage, someone shouted out, "Alfred!" He looked up to see a man dressed in a black suit.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Diaz!" America said cheerfully, his heart sinking. If a government official was going to collect him as soon as he got home, it couldn't possibly be good.

Not that he was home. He did have a house that he had been planning on going to in Denver. While it wasn't one he normally lived in and was usually just a guest house, it would have done, considering that there were direct flights from Denver to Munich and back.

America picked up his bags, walking over to him. "I'll assume you have horrible news?" America asked quietly.

"Yes, I do, actually." Mr. Diaz had broken news to him many times. Every single terrorist attack, every single shooting, all was given to him, in detail, by Mr. Diaz. He had lost his position long ago, but he was one of the few who had been trusted with the knowledge that America was... well, America, so he still talked to him.

America's shoulders slumped. "Well, what is it?" He was exhausted, but he was awake now. Awake and aware, whether he wanted to be or not.

"There was a protesting against Romero in Denver. During that, there was a bomb attack. It was hidden in a car— two bombs in two separate cars, actually, and they went off just as the crowds were passing. Sixty-four have died so far, and a hundred or so more were injured."

"That's not it." America said. "I think you have more to tell me?"

"There was a shooting in a Mall of America in Texas yesterday. The President will deal with that; the fact is, you have to visit the people injured by the bomb attack, because the President can't."

"What about my meeting with the President?"

"That... That will be postponed."

America snorted. He felt sick again, but he didn't say anything. _How ironic would it be to be injured in a protesting against your President, and then be visited by said President?_

"When do I have to visit the first person?"

"One of our officials will drive you from hospital to hospital. You have to be awake and ready to leave by tomorrow at eight in the morning, sharp. Understood?"

America nodded.

He went to the guesthouse after that, unpacking the few clothes he had brought with him. He always kept spare clothes in each of his guest houses— usually nicer clothes, but here, there weren't any. He'd have to go out and buy food, too. It was only three in the afternoon. Still plenty of time.

He walked to the nearest grocery store, bought food (for once, something other than hamburgers) and seasonings, and went back home.

Afterwards, he took a shower.

Up until now, his thoughts had been quite merciful. He hadn't really been thinking much at all. He had been distracted with shopping for groceries and generally fixing up the guesthouse again. But now that he was actually relaxing, the thoughts that should have gotten to him hours ago were finally swarming his mind.

 _People who won't die on me. Goddamnit. Everyone, all of my citizens... All of them have to die. All of them will die. I'll outlive everyone, all the people I love. I wonder how China must feel. He's really old, and has a really large population. How often does he think of this?_

 _If my citizens are the ones doing these things... doesn't that mean that a tiny_ _part of me actually wants this to happen?_

 _What can I even do besides visit people? Proactive versus Reactive. Was I ever even able to do anything at all? What if I had seen this coming? Could I have done something? Anything?_

Those thoughts were particularly reoccurring, but he mostly just drifted between being really upset and worrying about his citizens, and both simultaneously. There were much more disturbing, half-formed thoughts, but he pushed those thoughts out of his mind.

He stepped out of the shower, dressing himself in more comfortable clothing. And he fell asleep.

Whenever there was a shooting, America would have nightmares about it, even though he had never been in such a dire situation. He would have nightmares, but he wouldn't wake up from them at all, forced to just lay through them by his subconscious.

America opened his eyes, sitting up and gasping for breath. He cried. For the first time in a long while, he sobbed. It was about three in the morning. He had to wake up in roughly three and a half hours. He laid down and tried to get more sleep, sniffling through his tears and trying to wipe them away. Still, the tears kept coming and sleep didn't, and he was left exhausted by the time it was six-thirty.

 _ **I'm sorry if the way a government official would come collect America is rather unrealistic. It's hard to predict how different a government would be/what rolls people would have if the representatives of different countries in Hetalia really did exist. I also find it difficult to predict what rolls the characters themselves would have when contributing to their country (I always assumed they wouldn't have regular jobs). Or maybe it's just me, I don't know. Anyway, it would really be helpful if you could leave a review. Thank you!**_


	4. Chapter 4

"America." Germany called out, not bothering to look up. "It's not time for speeches, we're just doing attendance, so don't— America?" He looked up.

Everyone else did, too. America's seat was empty.

"Where is he?" Germany asked.

"Well, actually, he said he might not be here today because—," Canada started, but nobody was listening to him, as usual. Murmurs filled the room.

Germany slammed his hand on the table. "Silence! We'll wait two more minutes, and if he isn't there by then, we're starting without him."

"His own country and he can't even show up?" One of the countries scoffed.

England began his report.

America was a few blocks away, his lungs bursting. The place where he'd met with the President was only a few miles away, but his car had died. He'd only had thirty minutes until the World Meeting by then, and he had decided to run.

He stood outside, checking his watch. He hadn't made it in time. _He hadn't made it in time_. Actually, they'd be about a third of the way through the meeting by then.

He slammed open the door, closing it and locking it before continuing onward. The pleasant murmur of voices had stopped as soon as he had slammed the door.

They had been discussing Russia's speech. America opened the door.

"America, why are you late?"

"Sorry, dudes, I needed to meet with the President."

"You couldn't have done that any time last week?"

"No, I was... really, really busy." America mumbled. He was rather embarrassed. He sat down, and the next person recited their speech.

And then it was America's turn. Everyone was expecting the usual spiel about being a hero and finding what's best, as well as a ten minute dialogue on America's problems with little to no solutions.

But they didn't get that. Instead, they were met with America's calm-but-depressed voice: "There was a bomb attack in Colorado and a shooting in Texas last week." America said, loud enough for al of them to hear but not nearly as loud as he usually might speak.

"Do you have any solutions?"

"No. Not yet." _There aren't any heroes to fix this. No mythical solutions this time,_ he thought to himself.

"Is there anything else?"

"No."

The room was silent. There weren't really any other solutions that the other countries could come up with— none that America hadn't heard, anyway. Not only that, but it was an issue the other countries couldn't really help out with.

Everyone was really uncomfortable with America's bluntness. He hadn't beaten around the bush today. He wasn't smiling. He was quiet. He was fidgeting and nervous.

Everyone silently decided within ten seconds of silence that they didn't like it.

But there was nothing they could do.

"China, it's your turn." Germany said after a good few minutes of silence.

America went back to writing down notes.

Afterwards, America counted the pages his notes occupied. France, Germany and Italy were still there. Germany was scolding Italy for something while France was cleaning up the room.

"Thanks for cleaning up, France! You didn't have to!" America called out to France, who simply waved as he was walking out the door.

America pushed in his chair and left. His mind was a disorganized mess. He hadn't even had time to process anything from the World Meetings, which is why he always wrote them down. He'd written over thirty pages of notes by now, and he promised himself that he'd get around to it that night.

Soon, he found himself sitting in the meeting place by himself. He counted the notes one last time before getting up and surveying the empty room. He turned off the lights and left, locking the door on his way out.

England hadn't said anything to him, which was almost expected. America didn't find himself caring much about whether or not the older nation talked to him; not then. He had worse things to worry about, like protests still going on all over his country, this time also using a crazed supporter to rally people against the President.

It would be fine, if he could just get through this. Everything would be okay.

Actually, America felt rather selfish for thinking that. He couldn't just forget about his dead citizens. They weren't at fault for the shootings and the bomb attacks. They were innocent.

He just needed to think of a way to make sure such things wouldn't happen again.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hello!" America chimed, sitting down next to the girl's bed and carefully placing down a bag. This was his forty-ninth visit to the hospital. The person who he was visiting was a little girl, one who had been walking home from school when the bomb attack occurred. "What's your name?" The parents glanced at him warily, but let him speak.

"My name is Abigail." The girl said softly.

"It's nice to meet you, Abigail. My name is Alfred Jones," he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, "but you can call me Al!" The girl smiled a bit wistfully at that, shifting slightly in her hospital bed. She was very young, maybe seven or eight, with mousy brown hair and a small frame. A large bandage crossed over her face. He waited momentarily for the girl to say something, before saying, "How are you feeling right now?"

"I-I feel okay." She mumbled, her eyes cast to the ground.

America smiled. "Well, the nurses tell me that you've been holding up very well." He said. "In fact, they tell me that you're the most brilliant heroine this hospital has ever seen!" He'd planned out what he was going to say carefully.

"What's a heroine?" Abigail asked.

"A heroine is a girl who's so amazing and brilliant that she's a role model for everyone!" America said, smiling proudly.

"R-Really? Did they say that?"

"Really! And I agree with them. I think you're amazing for being so strong!" America meant it. He adored his citizens, especially the younger citizens— they were his future, his country's future, and none of them were filled with complete hatred for him or his country. "Are you excited for the holidays?"

"W-Well... Yeah!"

"I am too! What do you want from Santa for Christmas?"

"I just want some friends." Of course America had prepared for the worst, but this felt more like a punch to the gut than anything else did at the moment. "Nobody really talks to me at school."

"Aww. Why not?"

"They think I'm really stupid and ugly. And they don't have anything in common with me."

"Well," America said, trying to keep up the positive-pretense in his voice, "I think you're really pretty! And I think you're interesting and smart, too. I'm sure you'll find someone to hang out with!" America prayed that those comments weren't crossing the line to Abigail's parents.

The girl smiled bitterly. America reached into a bag he'd brought with him. "I brought you some flowers!" He pulled out some fake flowers and a small vase. "They're just for you!" He smiled. "You don't have to water them— they're fake."

The girl looked a bit upset at the news. "But don't worry! See, I had to bring fake flowers because the hospital doesn't allow real flowers, in case someone has allergies. And fake flowers last as long as you want them too, so you can always be cheered up by them!"

They were blue and white flowers. America arranged them before sitting them on the table across from her bed.

"So, anyway, what is the first thing you plan on doing when you get out of the hospital?"

"Hmm..." Abigail thought about it for a moment before saying, "I think I'll take a nap!" America chuckled at this, beaming. He really did love spending time with his citizens, even if sometimes they didn't really love him. Of course, none of them ever really knew of his importance— or lack thereof, apparently.

America checked the time. This was his last visit for today; surely he could spend extra time there if he wanted to? No, the visitor's center was going to close in about five minutes. He pulled a stuffed animal out of the bag. "Here you are. This is the other thing I brought for you!"

He put on the brightest smile he could have ever pulled off. "Well, Abigail, it was nice to meet you! I think you're really strong. You'll definitely get out of here in no time!" America waved cheerfully one last time before walking out the door.

America drove home afterwards, smiling to himself. It was nice to interact with his citizens and make them happy, or at least try to (even if it didn't work with most adults). It was nice to give them things. After all, none of them had known him long enough to hate him. None of them were going to mock or belittle him.

Still, it was horrible that a bomb attack was what had led to the meetings. America felt a bit guilty for enjoying the meetings— after all, he wouldn't have had them had the bomb attack not occurred.

America tried not to feel guilty, nonetheless, to just enjoy his time with them, to try to make up for it by showing all of them how much he loved his people. Not that he could, but he most certainly could try.

He arrived at home. He was exhausted. Arranging the meetings themselves was quite stressful, not that he would ever let any of it show. He took a shower and tried to sleep, but sleep didn't come.

He wished that Abigail had never been hurt. Children had a right to safety, after all.

America wished that none of them had been hurt by the bombs. It would've been so much better. It should've been safe. He couldn't shake off the feeling that he could've done something.

After an hour or so of just thinking, the young nation finally fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

The next World Meeting went by smoothly. America didn't say all that much, though he did speak a bit more on a parade that was going to take place in New York. He seemed both happier and more upset than usual.

"America!" England called out afterwards.

"What do you want, England?" America said monotonously, not looking up.

"I... I wanted to apologize for everything I said." England said.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. I'm so, so sorry, America."

America didn't say anything for a moment. The air grew awkward and tense. "I... I accept your apology." America said quietly, glancing at the ground. "Yeah." He figured it would be less awkward, considering his alliance, but now... now _this_ was extremely awkward. He took a few steps back, stumbling. _It'll be better for the alliance_ , but it was hard to say if anything could get better when America didn't sound genuine.

He waved goodbye and quickly left the room.

Outside was slightly better than inside. Slightly. He walked into the rain with no hesitation and made his way to the cab that was meant to take him back home.

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

And so life drudged in. America continued to visit people, but not all of them were as nice as Abigail had been. America still loved them, but he felt so guilty.

"Fucking country's going to shit," one of them had spat.

"Another one? Really? What was the point of sending anyone here?"

"Not like the government cares. Why should they?"

Still, more of them were entirely and completely respectful, and America thought that those people hurt him more than all the offensive compliments. They didn't agree with their country's opinion, but they weren't going to be rude to someone who had nothing to do with it. America admired this portion of his citizens.

Mr. Diaz had given him a copy of the schedule. He took a deep breath. _The last person... No, not a person. A family. The last grieving family._

America knocked on the door to the family's house.

A lady opened up. Her eyes were red. "Hello, dear." She said, sniffling.

"H-Hello. Are you Mrs. Johnson?"

"Yes. I suppose that would be me," she mumbled. "I'm going to assume you're the—?"

"Yes," America hummed. America held out his hand. "My name is Alfred Jones."

She didn't shake his hand. "Please come inside."

America stepped inside hesitantly. Fifty or sixty years ago, perhaps it would've been fine to meet with someone privately. He had been well known back then, after all.

"I... Mr. and Mrs. Johnson... I'd like to offer my apologies." America winced. That probably wasn't the right wording. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"What was it like, to find out that you had to visit so many people who didn't support the President?" The woman asked.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Well... We were all stunned by the fact that such a crime could occur. It doesn't matter who believes in or votes for what or who... Nobody deserves to be hurt. Nobody deserves to be terrified."

"You always say that," Mr. Johnson laughed. "All of you keep saying that. Every single person who's tried to talk to us... and I don't think you could _possibly_ know what it means."

"You're right. I don't. But—,"

"But _what_? You're so young, it's not like you have ever had children. And by God's grace, let's hope you never lose any. Don't you think you should just leave it alone? Your President is the reason this happened. One of his crazed supporters... Someone who must have agreed with _you_..."

"I'm so sorry, Ma'am." America bowed his head. _She's right. Of course I wouldn't know what it's like to have a child, to lose a child. But... I know what it's like to lose people. I've lost everyone._

"I'm so, so sorry dear. I... I need to ask you a question. May I?"

"Of course," America said, raising his head.

"How do you plan to fix this?"

America had been grappling with this question for quite sometime. "We're trying our best, I assure you," he managed. The woman frowned, but sat down. And then she teared up, shaking her head and placing it in her hands. _Oh, shit. I must've fucked up this meeting._ "I'm so, so sorry. We've—," _I've—_ " considered all options."

"Very well. Thank you for your time." The lady stood up and left the room, heading down the hall. America smiled weakly after her, before turning to the man.

"I'm so sorry," he offered. "We're both still very distraught."

"I can hardly imagine. Regardless, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, please stay safe." _That's a weird thing to say, too,_ he thought, wincing. "I... I'm afraid I must take leave now."

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

It occurred to America, as he was driving home, that it would probably seem odd to the parents that he had let them talk to him like that. Everyone he had visited thought he was just an unknown, unimportant or too-important government official. _They'll probably think it's weird that I don't even have any guards._

"I probably handled that horribly. I bet people will be talking about it in a few days." He frowned.

When he finally arrived at his house, he checked his phone.

No texts.

He sighed, smiling slightly, and undressed. He took a shower and quickly fell asleep, for he was exhausted.

His dreams were fitful, but they weren't bad enough for him to wake up before his alarm went off.


	7. Chapter 7

_A loud, startling noise pierced the air. A gunshot, followed by a scream. The scream was cut off. America shivered, terror coursing through him. People began to run in opposite directions, trampling each other in their terror. And yet, America couldn't move. He was frozen._

America woke up before the dream ended due to his alarm, thankfully. He was distressed for a few brief moments. Luck had mercy on him that day; he forgot the dream.

It had been days since the last meeting to give condolences. And he felt a little bit better, now, as if it didn't hurt quite as badly. He felt horrible for feeling like he was forgetting. He wasn't forgetting; his country was. It wasn't his fault.

He hummed on his way to the airport. The news was cheerful and brief, and then it cut to some popular pop songs. Perhaps America still wasn't feeling great enough to sing along, though.

He boarded his flight.

When he showed up, he was about ten minutes early to the World Meeting. He stayed put. The World Meeting was actually in Italy, a rare event that happened about once a decade.

"Ciao, America!" Italy called out, rounding the corner and turning into the hall.

"Hey, Italy," America responded.

England stepped inside, followed by Germany and Japan, France and Spain, Switzerland, Hungary, Austria, and many others.

The meeting began.

America listened this time instead of taking notes.

Maybe life would be okay again.

He needed to save them next time, though. He needed to save everybody. Or else what sort of a hero was he?

He stood up when it was his turn. "Nothing to report. Things are... getting better again." _Can I really call it 'getting better' if everyone just settles down again? Things are better for me because I'm not sick anymore, but as for my country—_

"That's great, America." Germany afforded. America sat down. He'd never had someone comment without some sort of harmful criticism on any of his speeches before. "China," Germany said, looking up at the older nation.

"Hey, Amerique!" France sauntered up to him just after the meeting. "I'm glad to hear that things are getting better in your country again."

America smiled, nodding.

"Have you come up with a solution for the gun problem?" France asked.

"No, not yet. It's hard to come up with a definitive answer. But I have an idea for how to protect people from shootings!"

France frowned, confused. "How?"

"I'll become their hero! I'll be there for everyone, and I'll keep them from danger!"

France's eyes widened. "America... That's... Don't you think that will be difficult? How will you even know where things like this are going to happen?"

"I'll learn, and I'll save people where I can."

France was actually scared by this idea. Sure, a lot of America's ideas were stupid (especially the ones involving heroes) but he got the sense that this was different. He wasn't quite sure how. The solution to the problem was so much more personal now, though. "Okay, America! Be careful, though. The hero needs to stay uninjured too, y'know?"

America nodded, grinning. He ran down the steps and into a cab.

 **Alright, so I'm sorry it's taken so long for a new chapter; especially one that's so short. I had a bit of a lack of motivation for this story in particular; and I was considering putting it on hiatus. Then, I also spent a week in a foreign country, so I didn't get much of a chance to write anyway.**

 **TW was changed because I realized that I really don't want to write self harm into this story, not at this point. With the way the story is going, I feel that it would completely throw it off. However, I feel the mention of shootings and bombings might be a sensitive subject for some people.**

 **Reviews would be wonderful, and thank you for your continued support. Have a wonderful day/night, everybody!**


	8. Chapter 8

For days, America thought of how to make things better.

He couldn't come up with any solutions, but he wasn't going to give up. That wasn't like the younger nation. No, not at all.

It wasn't like America could feel the malice of one person building up. It wasn't like he could pinpoint a location.

Maybe he couldn't help with the shootings, but there were always other ways to help, right?

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.) 

America wasn't usually one to just sit in his house. He liked to get out and do things. But he sat in there for days, just thinking. Of course he couldn't tell when the next shooting would be. However, what could he do, really? England called him once or twice, saying they were all worried, but America decided to not say too much. Not only did England's possible judgement really not matter compared to his nation, but he didn't exactly want to hear how worried everybody was. He was worried, too.

However, there was no reason to worry about _him_. And the other nations only ever really talked to him, not seeming to care how his country was doing. That was fine and all, but surely they understood that he was fine?

Yes, everything was fine. However, he'd be even better if he could save just _one_ person.

Sure, it would be practically impossible to be at a building at the right time to stop a shooting. However, there were always other places. Places that were much more dangerous and could turn out much worse.

Protests were always a big deal. It hardly mattered for the overall country, but they could always get violent. Either way, America had never particularly liked the over-aggressiveness that came with people enforcing their opinions.

The crowds had always peeved him just a bit, even if he was with good people that he supported. And sure, he hadn't heard anything too recently— except for the bombing. He didn't think about that, though. He was terrified of being so utterly worthless to his country.

Yes, the idea of going into a crowd scared him just a little. He figured that he shouldn't be afraid of his own citizens, though. What good was a hero that was afraid of the people he was trying to save?

Yes, the idea of protests most certainly scared him, but it was most certainly a way to keep people from hurting each other.

 **Hey, everybody. I can really only apologize at this point for how short the chapters have become. I know this is a relatively short chapter, and I can't promise anything will be out soon. You won't have to wait three months for another chapter, though— that I can promise you.**

 **Reviews would be awesome. I'd really appreciate the feedback. Regardless, have a good day/night. Stay safe, everybody.**


	9. Chapter 9

"Good afternoon, Mr. President."

"Good morning, Alfred. What did you want to talk about?"

America checked his watch. _9:15._ He tried to fight back the redness of his cheeks. He had always been at ease with all of his bosses, mostly just because he figured that it didn't matter too much. Unless they didn't tell him something that was important— things that he should've known about. In that case, he tended to get rather frustrated, but—

But this would never work if he wasn't—

Careful. He had to be careful, because he would never be able to ask—

 _His citizens._ He wondered if this was truly about his citizens or if it was about—

The other nations. They always made fun of him. They didn't poke fun at him much anymore but he could still hear them whisper about the shootings, as if it was—

His fault. He knew that in some parallel universe or whatever the hell, he must've been able to stop a shooting. It didn't matter if his life was on the line. It was his fault that he couldn't save them now. He was the hero. He was—

"Alfred?"

Maybe he was just Alfred.

"Are you okay? What did you want to talk about?" The President repeated.

"I-I... um..." America cursed himself silently. "I wanted to talk about... about the shooting."

"Of course." The President smiled reassuringly, as if he wasn't taking up valuable time. The President only had four years, after all. America tried to recall what the President had promised to do, exactly, but he couldn't. Not right now.

"And the bombing." The President's smile stayed, if not becoming a bit more weary.

"Okay. Well—,"

"I wanted to do something about it. I hate feeling so useless. I don't know what to do." Alfred cursed himself again. Why had he interrupted the President?

"Well... What were you considering?"

"That's the problem. I wasn't— I considered— I considered a lot of things, but a lot of them were already very dangerous, so I didn't go through with them."

"Hm." The President sat back. "Why don't you sit down, Alfred?"

America reluctantly sat down in the chair across from him. Usually he didn't sit. Usually the talks were quite brief.

"What... What did you want to do that was dangerous?"

America shrugged, and then realized that that probably wasn't a decent way to go about things. "Well... I... I wanted to actually go to protests and things like that to make sure no one got hurt, but that... that wouldn't have worked out. I'm sure you can see why."

The President nodded. "What exactly are you requesting?"

"I want... I want to actually do something. I don't want to sit back and read about the latest case of my citizens shooting each other. That's exactly what I've been doing. I hate it."

"You want a job to do?"

America nodded eagerly.

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

America went home, humming to himself quietly in the car. The President had given one job, and it was the one he was best at.

Usually, his only jobs were to throw parties for his citizens, supervise parades, attend the World Meetings... Nothing was ever resolved during World Meetings, since they were speaking for themselves and not their actual country, and other things were just as well done by humans.

This... This felt important. It felt like he could do something.

He smiled. He just hoped it would work.

 **It would be lovely if you could leave a review. Thanks for reading and stay safe!**

 **I know this has been rather tedious recently, as well as short. I'm trying to wrap it up quite soon, and I'll try to make the next chapter a bit longer, but no promises on that.**

 **I've been going through a few things recently, so I don't know when another chapter will be out.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Sariyah: I'm so glad to know you like the story, and that I was able to write something you were looking for. I agree, everything that happens in America is a little nervewracking for a regular citizen, and I wanted to explore how America would feel dealing with this.**

There weren't any real solutions for American gun crime. Correction— there were _a lot_ of solutions for American gun crime. All of the solutions were either ignored or fell through.

So, America's first solution: He had to walk around.

That was literally all he had to do. He was instructed to just walk around a highschool, looking for 'red flags.'

It was a rather awkward solution, to be quite honest. He was pretty good at walking around; after all, he had been doing so for a long time.

He was supposed to interact with his citizens, but he didn't know anybody. It became unsatisfying to try and start a conversation with people who were constantly on their phones.

There was one more problem with such a ridiculous solution, though: his appearance.

America was not a high-school aged teenager. He spoke like one, sure, but— but he was older than that. He had seen more than them. He had been through a lot.

Biologically, he was a bit older than them— nobody questioned him on it, so he supposed that was fine.

There was one good thing about how he looked: He could pass to be someone older or younger than him.

That was only useful sometimes, and after the first day such a quality was absolutely useless. America found himself wishing he looked just a bit younger.

Nothing really happened.

There was one kid that was incredibly 'patriotic'. He didn't recite the constitution or anything (actually, America could do that, he just didn't), but he was always talking about politics. That was normal for generally annoying people, America thought, but it was worse than that.

The kid seemed to have a natural pull to America, and soon he followed America around. America didn't really have anything to say to him. The kid seemed to love every state except for the one they were in, saying things like, "This state sucks; I would rather live anywhere else— even Hawaii." America didn't understand what was wrong with the state he was in _or_ Hawaii. Whenever the kid said this, he would just shrug.

And, even then, his 'patriotism' was even more intense than that. He was constantly spewing about the constitution and occurrences, but he was wrong about what was unconstitutional most of the time.

He was friendly enough towards the other kids, but he made America feel rather uncomfortable. That was just him, of course.

America was supposed to report any instances or children that worried him. He reported a few instances of bullying and kids who seemed to be having a hard time— whether that was with school or at home, he just wanted to help everybody— but nothing about shootings.

America saw this one PSA about the 'signs of a school shooting' where some kid was looking through gun magazines and crap, and sticking to himself, but nobody noticed because everybody was wrapped up in their own lives. But then again, what even were the signs that a school shooter would show, besides bringing a gun to school? What was he supposed to look for?

America hadn't really thought about it that much before he went to the school, but it was hard to look for 'signs'. He didn't want to alienate anyone, and it was hard to talk to students because they didn't seem to like him very much. He didn't quite understand that either; weren't his citizens supposed to like him?

It probably didn't help that he had joined in the middle of the school year. Everybody had formed their own groups. Those that weren't in groups were fine alone.

Apparently there were a lot of signs in social media. America didn't like the idea of looking through their social media; they didn't like him, he didn't know them, and he felt like a stalker. So he didn't.

He went everyday for about a month, and he hated almost every second of it. Mostly, though, he hated how he had reported a few instances of bullying and nothing had been done about it. It wasn't something little, either— the instances included people getting beaten and harassed for things that were essentially meaningless.

At the end of the month, he told the one 'patriotic' kid that his family was moving again. He'd managed to say little, but he supposed that he needed a reason.

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

"So, how did it go?" The President asked.

"Not well. I don't even really understand what I'm supposed to look for."

"Anything else?"

America snorted. "Teenagers."

The President chuckled, though America supposed the situation they were dealing with wasn't quite hilarious. "Well, I suppose the solution wasn't going to work out too well anyway— it was just one high school that you were sent to," the President admitted. "Perhaps we could think of something else?"

America left, thinking that perhaps the President had sent him to the high school for the sake of getting him to go away.

A lot of his Presidents had been like that, actually— never really caring about him, always more focused on pushing their agendas. He had thought this President would be different, but really, wasn't it the same? What was it the President had said— _I suppose the solution wasn't going to work out too well anyway?_ It had seemed like a decent idea at the time, though it was clear enough why it hadn't worked— but had the President realized it wasn't going to work and just sent America on his way to satisfy him?

Why hadn't America realized that it wasn't going to work? He remembered being so happy to finally be doing something, because something was better than nothing.

The President, no matter who it was, always seemed to find him a bit of a nuisance. They gave him minuscule jobs that didn't really matter in the long run, but made it seem important. America always believed it _was_ important until he was finished with the job.

America had always hated how he was treated like a child— like how he was told to colour a mountain one time, and another time was told that he hadn't really seen anything when it had _clearly_ been a UFO— but now he saw that it worked. He was treated like a child because it worked. It got him to shut up for once, to stop pestering.

Still, the President had proposed another solution. America thought that he might as well try it.

 **I know I haven't responded too recently to reviews, but I'd like you all to know that even if I don't respond to yours, I still read them. I am glad for your feedback.**

 **Remember to drink water. It's very important to stay hydrated, especially if you live in an area where it's hot or you're outside/doing physically strenuous activities often.**

 **Anyway, reviews would be wonderful, but you don't need to review to have a good day. Stay safe, everybody.**


	11. Chapter 11

**AquaEclipse: The school I wrote of, or at least certain aspects, are based off of my own schooling. Other parts are based off of what seems to be the general American experience when it comes to schooling. The videos you speak of, if I'm thinking of the right video, are becoming extremely popular.**

 **My school wasn't particularly bad, mostly because of the student-staff ratio, but it wasn't an ideal experience, by any means.**

England watched as America gave his presentation. Of course, he watched every single time America presented, but usually it was just courtesy. A gentleman's politeness.

Now, however, he actually had a reason. America hadn't really talked to anyone in awhile, longer than normal. All of the other nations had always thought it would be a relief, when he finally stopped talking so much, but in all reality, it was awkward. The silence at the beginning and end of World Meetings didn't seem quite right.

At first, England had thought that America was just being arrogant; the self-proclaimed leader of developed countries (and gun violence, but America never said that), haughty and conceited.

America seemed to write pretty much constantly during the World Meetings, but whenever someone called on him it was clear he wasn't paying attention at all. England could only be left to wonder what he was writing about.

While America and England had not talked often, not since the incident a few World Meetings ago, England decided that if America wasn't going to speak willingly, he would force America to speak.

None of the other nations were willing to do such a thing. Actually, they seemed a bit afraid of doing so. America just seemed so fragile, and whenever someone did speak to him, he'd respond in very few words. At least his speeches remained the same.

England had also decided that the best way to get America to talk was via phone call. Yes, he figured, there was no need for an explosive confrontation. Not to mention, if something actually was wrong with America...

And, England determined, there was definitely something wrong with America. He didn't even think to get America's say on this. He simply determined that America must surely be traumatized by rising to power so quickly, never growing up, and experiencing poverty and a world of hatred. Not to mention gun violence and terrorist attacks and previous threats of nuclear annihilation and so many wars. _Not to mention the economy! Racism! Homophobia! Illegal immigration! Drugs!_ Future _terrorist attacks! Healthcare! Homelessness! Poverty! North Korea! Climate change! Recycling! Democracy! Abortion! The sou—_

Yes, England decided without consulting America or any other nation at all, America was most certainly traumatized by the events of both the past and present. And perhaps everything had finally manifested into a will to not speak. Or perhaps America simply didn't want to share his thoughts. Perhaps America was extremely depressed by all of the things his country had gone through, and perhaps he needed someone to reach out to him.

America was _surely_ depressed and extremely anxious about the future, and while it was none of his business, England would help him anyway. After all, England had survived, hadn't he?

England had tried to help him out a little, to warn him that the world was not oh-so-kind, especially not to Americans. However, America just never seemed to care. He never listened. Perhaps America had finally realized that England was telling the truth.

And so, England called him, extremely pleased with himself for figuring out the problem but also quite worried. He wasn't sure what to say, but he would think of something. He would be kinder now.

(Linebreak.)

America was sitting at his desk, furiously stabbing words into a notebook with his pen. Perhaps it was a result of his determination, but it seemed he couldn't quite control his strength, and he accidentally tore the paper several times. It made little difference to him.

 _Good morning/afternoon, young people of Colorado..._

No, that made him sound like an old bastard, and he definitely could not sound like an old bastard. It wouldn't make sense.

America's second solution, once again a job bestowed upon him by his boss, was to write a speech. If he could write a speech, he could recite the speech in front of people, most likely high schoolers, to comfort them.

Somehow, he was supposed to both comfort them and give them warning signs. Just things to look out for. Really, though, all the 'warning signs' were pretty common in teenagers. Aside from carrying a gun to school, of course.

He started the speech again. _Don't talk to them like they're kids._

"Good afternoon, everyone!" He read to himself. It was truly pathetic, how far he'd gotten along.

He was to present in Colorado first, which wasn't entirely convenient for him, but when was any of this convenient for him? And it didn't matter anyway. He had nothing else to do.

His phone rang. He looked up, squinting at it. _England? Why is he calling me at three in the morning?_

 _Oh, right. Time differences._

Well, it wasn't unreasonable for him to be asleep at three in the morning, was it? And he didn't particularly want to talk to England right now.

He let it ring, returning to his speech.

And then, five minutes later, his phone rang again.

 _England. I should probably answer, huh?_

"Yo, England! What's up?" He asked. "Why are you calling me so early?"

England didn't respond for a moment. "England? Are you there, dude? If you don't talk to me in the next five seconds I'm going to—,"

"America! How are you?"

"I'm good, I'm just—,"

"Have you slept at all yet?"

"No, I slept in late yesterday, so—,"

"When was the last time you ate?"

"A few hours ago," America answered slowly, stifling a yawn. "England, are you alright? It's three in the morning over here, and while you don't normally call me I always assumed you'd be more mindful of time differences." _Man, it is pretty late. Maybe I should sleep._

"What are you doing? Why are you awake?"

"You called me two times." America said.

"No, but you said you couldn't sleep anyway, so—," _Oh, so he has been listening to what I've been saying._ "—and basically, you must be doing something."

"What is this about? And yeah, I'm doing something."

"What are you doing?"

"None of your business," America snapped, and then he felt a bit bad about it so he added, "You wouldn't like what I'm doing anyway, and I don't need anymore of your crap." So that didn't help at all. If anything, it just made him feel worse. It should have, anyway, but if America was honest he didn't really care.

"Are you doing something particularly useless?"

"No," America said, although he wasn't too sure that he was doing anything particularly useful. "So what's this about? Do you need me to send you dehydrated vegetables or something? Do you want me to start gardening again?"

He heard England scoff at him. "No. I just wanted to check that you're doing alright. It doesn't seem normal for you to be up at odd hours. You sleep like a log, right on schedule."

"You woke me up."

"You were already doing something."

"And I was doing it perfectly drowsily until you woke me up. Thanks for that, I guess. I at least know what I'm writing now." America crossed out _Any questions?_ instead scribbling, _is there anything else you'd like to hear about?_

"I just wanted to know if you were alright. America, I know it must be a lot—,"

"What's a lot? I'm okay, really. I don't know what you're on about."

"But I mean, hey, I survived, and so can you—,"

"Survive what? England, you're acting weird."

"Survive as a nation, of course!" _If he wanted to give me this talk,_ America thought drily, _he should've done so when he still owned me._

"Is that what you think I've been worrying about?" America asked. "I've noticed that you keep looking at me funny during the World Meetings and stuff. I'm not an idiot."

"America, what are you doing at this very moment?"

"I'm writing."

"What are you writing?"

"A speech for American high schoolers."

"How do you expect to get such a thing out?"

"Well, I'm stopping at Colorado first, to see if it's a success, because Colorado gets threats every year."

"Threats?" England echoed.

"Threats." America confirmed. He didn't really want to say more on it; the idea made him sick. "What's up, dude? I'm serious, you sound like you're about to ask me something important. Do you want the dehydrated vegetables or not?"

"What are you on about now, America?"

"The... No. You'll be fine. Nevermind. Your Air Force is... strong..." America figured if he started talking about random shit like it was happening again, England would leave him alone. "I'll go over myself, even if my government..."

"You know what? Nevermind. Forget about the dehydrated vegetables." And then suddenly, America had a thought: _Fuck, did we ever send Britain dehydrated vegetables, or was it just the vegetable seeds and the oranges and the spam?_

"Seeds!" America blurted. "Do you want us to send some vegetable seeds? I could try to convince—,"

"Forget about the bloody food!" _Will he leave me alone now?_

"What about spam? You guys don't think it's food, but it's edible—,"

"America! This is serious, and I know you were trying to throw me off!"

"What about carrots? You guys still have carrots, right? No shortage of carrots! Ya've gotta have carrots!"

"No!"

"You don't have carrots?"

"No! Yes, well, I mean, I don't like carrots so I don't— _America!_ Will you listen for one minute, please?"

America reluctantly stayed quiet. "America, I've noticed that you haven't been talking to anybody."

"Wait, you guys do like spam—,"

"That's enough, America. You're not going to get me to hang up on you. I need to talk to you."

America sighed and resigned himself to listening. "America, it's not like you at all." England continued with his speech. Quite frankly, America didn't know why England would care, and his mind gradually wandered to other topics. He still listened, but he didn't _listen-_ listen.

"So, America, what do you think?"

"I feel sufficiently motivated," America said cautiously. Not hearing a scoff or sigh from the other end, he continued, "But I think you're being more than a bit overzealous about this, England. Nothing's wrong with me. I'm okay. And you can't tell me that I'm not okay, because it's not your place to do that."

England didn't respond. America briefly wondered if the reason he didn't hear anything was because England had left the room. "I understand, America. I just wanted to make sure you were quite alright."

America almost laughed. _England,_ the same person that had swore at him a few World Meetings ago for things that weren't his fault, _checking on him?_

"If anything is bothering you—,"

"I'm okay! Nothing is bothering me, really, and if there was something it's not something you would be able to fix." Well, part of that was true, at least. "So just leave it alone, alright? Goodnight— er, good morning, England. I'm going to sleep." Before England could respond, he hanged up.

(Linebreak.)

America wasn't a quitter. Really, once he had a solution to any problem, an answer to any question, he stuck to it. What could he say that would make these people feel better? What could he tell them to look out for that wouldn't cause kids to be alienated and even more alone? This recent generation was so antisocial, it was a wonder that anyone was even able to trace down specific 'signs' of a school shooter—

America cut that thought off, frowning. He looked at what he'd written:

 _Good morning, everybody._

 _I understand that Colorado's schools, in particular, seem to face a unique problem. I want to talk to all of you about it._

 _(???)_

 _(???)_

 _(???)_

 _Did anyone hear anything they'd like to know more about?/ Did anyone hear anything that interested them?_

America shook his head, frowning. It was no good. What was he even supposed to say? He wished he could think of something worthy, of something quotable, but... nothing.

He was feeling mighty unheroic.

And then, what about the warning signs? Maybe he wouldn't have to include that. He recalled this one poster he'd seen while flying though California— "Jill is just as prepared as Bob is." It labeled Bob as an officer, fully equipped with a handgun, bulletproof vest, and a general uniform— and Jill as an everyday citizen, ready to go through TSA. It said something like, "Stay alert. Pay attention." Or maybe it was, "All you need to protect yourself and others is your eyes and ears." Something like that. Maybe he could write about that.

(Linebreak.) 

He contacted his boss the next day to tell him that he couldn't write a speech.

"Are you sure you don't want to give it a shot, Alfred?"

"I've tried, and I just can't... I can't do it."

America wasn't a quitter, but he didn't like to waste his time either. He had already spent all of September (well, save for one day) trying to write the speech, for so little to be done in the end.

And so, he was presented with another solution.

America hoped this one worked, but really, why did he even listen to his boss? What was the worst Romero could do— _fire_ him?

He faintly recalled England saying something about North Korea, and how he must've been extremely afraid of different things happening, but that wasn't true. America didn't care about other countries, because really, who was going to become #1? No, none of that mattered to him. Not when his own Americans seemed to hate each other more than the foreigners did.

Why should he listen to his boss? He thought bitterly. Every single person he'd ever known that had tried to 'help him' had also told him that he was going to die, that he was going to collapse one day very soon and never be able to move again. Every candidate, every nation, every boss. Everyone always tried to turn him against the others. He hated it.

Every candidate had said that they knew the path to eternal life— or at least not an early death. But as soon as they became President, they pushed America away. The nations... well, they didn't try to convince America that he was going to die without them. They just told him he as going to die.

Everyone told him that another nation was going to kill him one day, or poison him. They never specified who it was, because really, who was going to?

There was little reason to believe his boss had the best intentions in mind. Usually people didn't. No, it was more likely that his boss was trying to get him to be quiet.

And, America added, perhaps just to make himself feel better, England didn't pay much attention to him if he thought that America was scared. America was fine. He was always fine. He didn't get scared so easily.

America was fine.

 **I suppose I should apologize, really. I understand that this is a serious story, and this specific chapter actually required quite a bit of thought. There were some things in particular that I aimed to convey in this chapter, and I hope I did so at least moderately well. I had a lot I wanted to say, and I hope I at least managed to string them together coherently.**

 **Reviews would be greatly appreciated. Any feedback, any thoughts you may have... I'll take it. I do appreciate your reviews, and I'm sure I've said this before but I do read them rather frequently while writing these chapters.**

 **Have a good day, everyone. Stay hydrated and stay safe.**


	12. Chapter12

**To stomach something: to tolerate it, no matter how unpleasant.**

The final solution (America quickly decided _not_ to call it that ever again) was more like putting a bandaid on a bullet wound (or a knife wound, for that matter, but hey, that wasn't _his_ problem).

The third solution was not a solution at all. Rather, it was just a means of comforting his citizens.

His new job was, simply enough, to watch over his younger citizens. It was exactly the same as his first task, except he wasn't looking for signs of shooters within five year olds.

He was just there to protect them, really. To look out for anything going on. While he was at it, he figured, he may as well work at a suicide hotline, seeing as he was supposed to solve seemingly every problem except for shootings.

The most important thing America had to do was make sure they didn't talk much about the shootings. America thought that little kids shouldn't hear about shootings; but clearly parents didn't care enough these days to send their children away when the evening news started.

Or— well, America shouldn't have felt that way, really. He shouldn't have. That didn't mean he couldn't feel that way, just that he _shouldn't—_ but how else was he supposed to feel? It was irksome.

Once again, he was required to report anything that was wrong with the children.

And it was okay. He had to be extremely careful of what he did, and a female monitor was also always there, and he was almost always on camerica. But otherwise it was okay.

It was nice to hang out with tiny children, albeit extremely worrying. He was constantly worried about them, but what was he supposed to do? He was a goddamn hall monitor.

It was easy enough to keep the children from getting scared. On the first day he'd assured them that nothing bad would ever happen to them under his watch. A few of the older kids snickered, rolled their eyes, and looked away— and in hindsight it was a bad thing to say.

And _now_ , he reflected, as he gently told a kid off for shoving the other ("Shoving someone else is totally not okay, James! You understand why, right?— Well, even if you don't particularly like Mary, she's still another kid, just like you."), he was doing his job well enough, but it wasn't _enough_.

It had to be good enough.

Of course America knew that he was doing _absolutely nothing_ to combat shootings.

It definitely helped to be with tiny children, even if they all disrespected him pretty much constantly. Then again, it also made him feel pretty shitty to be disrespected by the children. America was fairly certain he wasn't exactly cut out for the job. Sure, he had thick skin, but not for his children. Not for the American children.

Every time he went to a World Meeting, England asked him what he was doing. America always said, "Answering your question, I guess," because he really didn't want England to think he'd just given up.

And he wasn't giving up. That's what he said, wasn't it?

These days he found he didn't exactly have time to talk to the other nations, and usually the World Meetings were two day trips. He found himself requesting certain dates for the World Meetings, and the others complied solely because he was a superpower and it wasn't like anyone else had anything to do.

America never told them why he had to request those dates, or what he was doing back at home.

America also tried not to think about the fact that this was just one school. He couldn't be in every school in his country. This was just one school that he was protecting. Just one group of kids.

He felt a little sick sometimes when he imagined that, assuming he could really protect them (along with the combined security measures he'd managed to push onto the school) he was just moving the bloodshed somewhere else.

And that wasn't how it worked, and of course America knew that, because well-defended schools still got shot up.

America really, really, really wished he could be everywhere at once.

America knew that he might not be able to defend them— that he probably wouldn't be able to. He just knew that if it came down to it, he would have to.

(Linebreak.)

America was beginning to think he wasn't cut out for the job. He stood there, listening quietly as one of the teachers said that a student in her class had died recently. The words sounded foreign. They didn't fit quite right in America's mind, so he just listened— quietly. _Child. Dead._ No, that didn't fit quite right. That couldn't be right.

And he knew the kid, too. Not outside of the school— America didn't exactly have any human relatives or friends— but he'd seen the kid often enough. He had acted out quite often, and always seemed to be getting into some sort of fight or disagreement. The same teacher that was speaking of his death had often lamented over what an asshole he was, which Alfred didn't find quite fair.

"How'd he die?" America asked.

The other teachers glared at him. He couldn't help but feel like he'd done something wrong. America had clearly missed something.

Her teacher, Mrs. Walker, stared at him and said, "His stepfather killed him."

"Oh," America mouthed. He just stared into his coffee. "Well, I— um— better go do the crosswalk. Yeah." He backed out of the room, abandoning his cup of coffee.

(Linebreak.)

It takes a certain something out of you, doing everything alone everyday.

America tried to tell himself he wasn't alone. He had coworkers. His boss supported his actions. He was talking to the other nations more often.

However, he was alone. He was very much alone.

America's resolve was only supposed to last as long as his citizens'. It had lasted that much longer, but it was starting to diminish— or perhaps it had broken off of him and slid straight down, similar to what some people thought would happen to California.

And so, with just the right amount of despondency for one's actions to be considered The Ultimate Failure, he decided that, once the school year was over and his contract was up, he would leave the school.

(Linebreak.)

The days passed quickly enough. It was the first day of summer, and America was a bit dazzled. It had been a good school year, although America had no way to judge such a thing (as he'd been homeschooled, several hundred years ago, and the high school visit had been incredibly brief— and a visit to a high school).

The first week passed quickly. America didn't do anything, and he was glad to just be relaxing in his house. He hadn't done too much relaxing recently. Still, his heart sunk a bit at the fact that he'd be doing a lot more of that.

Today, though— today he needed groceries, so he was driving to Walmart. A catchy song played on the radio. America hummed along, blocking out the lyrics. This was the perfect song for the radio— it was easy to listen to, the song was really about nothing, and it wasn't boring enough for America to focus on something else. It was the sort of song that would keep one's mind relatively clear while driving, which was excellent.

It was only when he walked into the store that he realized he'd forgotten his phone, which had the grocery list on it. He walked back into the parking lot and stopped at his car, considering going back home— _No, I don't have the money to be wasting gas like that—_ and so he walked to the store as quickly as he could, away from the hot, hot sun, and into a freezing supermarket.

He closed his eyes at the frozen aisle and tried to remember what he needed. He loved cooking, but he usually didn't— maybe he wouldn't get something frozen this time around. As long as he bought something to eat...

And so he bought a few boxes of pasta and tomato and pesto sauce. He longed for the days, ever so long ago, when he would make his own tomato sauce with red wine. It had been so much more flavorful than fucking _Ragú._

He wouldn't admit that to himself, so he just put a few jars of _Ragú_ into the cart and walked on.

On second thought, maybe he'd make the sauces himself—

No, he didn't have the money for that. (Which wasn't true— America wasn't in debt, but similar to the rest of his citizens, he acted like he was— then again, most of his citizens actually _were_ in debt. Still, America had the constant impulse to eat like a college student who had suddenly been kicked out of his parents' house for some stupid shit. At least then he could relate to his citizens instead of lording above them in a somewhat nice house in a now-expensive state.)

He bought some butter and parmesan, too, because they were cheap enough and good with pasta. And he bought ground turkey. America couldn't really think of anything that was more fun to make than spaghetti, and so he bought the food items and went home.

(Linebreak.)

America woke up and got dressed. He quickly realized he'd somehow forgotten to buy any breakfast food at all, and so he drove to Village Inn, ordered a pancake, and then ate and went back to Walmart.

He bought eggs and pancake mix and milk and sugar and went back home.

(Linebreak.)

When he got home, it was too late to make breakfast. He played video games for a few hours, skipping lunch entirely, and then made pasta for dinner.

It was fun. He put the pot of water on the stove, and then started breaking apart the chunk of processed turkey. He seasoned the meat and started flipping it and shit, and then the water was boiling so he broke the dry noodles in half and put them in and—

He didn't think much at all.

(Linebreak.) 

America spent a few days being completely happy and content. He checked the news often enough, just enough to know what was going on.

Now, though, he wasn't so happy. He had a World Meeting to go to, meaning he actually had to read the news. He knew what was going on and that was enough, but he wanted to know the details so he could actually be more educated on his country than most of the other nations already were.

He scanned the headlines. Nestled in between ' _Climate Change: The Most Likely End of the World'_ and ' _Romero Tweets Out Picture of His Face Photoshopped Over The Boulder's Face; Fans Infuriated_ ' was an article on a shooting: ' _Four People Dead, Six Injured in Atlanta Church Shooting'_. America saw it. He didn't even pause.

 **One final apology for such varied updates couldn't hurt. This story is complete now; I've nothing more to add to it.**

 **One of the main reasons I didn't update for so damn long was because I had a very nice ending planned— but a lot changes in a year, and a few months ago I realized that I couldn't write that ending, as it wasn't realistic at all. So I spent a long time thinking about how to give this story a happy ending, while still being somewhat realistic. I decided that the best way to do so was to end with America's personal happiness. Perhaps I measured in at a mighty 0 on the Scale of Realism anyway. Regardless, I hope you can understand.**

 **The first chapter of this story was published on December 25, 2018. I'm fairly certain that I published it very early in the morning, as I wouldn't have had time that day. It's December 22, 2019 as I write this, so I've... stretched this story out a fair bit. Once again, I can only really apologize for that. Still, thanks for sticking with me this long— even after I delivered abysmally short chapters and for awhile lost motivation for this story overall.**

 **Anyway, a final little note before the obligatory review request: I rewrote chapter two at some point, because I always hated the way I wrote it the first time and it was bugging me a lot. I'm not sure who exactly is going to care, if anyone does at all, but I felt I ought to address that.**

 **And now, it's time for the obligatory review request: A review would be greatly appreciated. I do read them, and I'd like to know what you thought of this story overall (or at least this chapter). Stay safe, have an awesome winter, stay warm— all that good stuff.**


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